


the makings of a fine soldier

by wildenessat221b



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, description of injury, mike understanding, not cap, repressed cap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29019036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenessat221b/pseuds/wildenessat221b
Summary: Mike has been tasked with cleaning out the attic."Here's to buried secrets" may fall on its sword.
Relationships: The Captain/Lieutenant Havers (Ghosts TV 2019)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82





	the makings of a fine soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo, this is a sequel to "rabbits wrapped in velvet" so please check that out first! Or not, and be confused!

"Why can't you do it?"

"BECAUSE."

"Because what?"

Alison buries her face in her hands and releases a long, throaty huff.

"Because, Julian's convinced half of the plague lot to join the Tory Party, the other half are NOT happy, Robin's managed to convince himself that he's worked out who the Zodiac Killer is and wants me to write a letter to... Well I don't actually who, but SOMEONE. Kitty's on about playing Marco Polo, but she also said something about the lake so I think she's got it mixed up with water polo, so that'll take at least three hours of explaining -"

"Alright, alright." Mike holds his hands up in defeat and scowls. "I get it, ghost stuff."

Alison nods and sighs. "Ghost stuff."

Mike's scowl deepens, and he turns to rest a single toe on the ladder. It creaks threateningly. He turns back to Alison, who shrugs with a tight smile. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and scampers up the rest of the ladder as though it's land-mid-slide, falling away beneath his feet. He straightens up, blows out a breath, and placing his hands on his hips, surveys the dark and dusty room. When he flicks a switch to his left, a naked lightbulb attached (in the loosest sense of both the word and its manifestation) to the ceiling flickers and ignites. He recoils from it in surprise, which turns quickly to dismay when he notes the now illuminated state of the attic which he is to clear.

"You okay up there?" Alison calls.

"Dandy," Mile replies flatly. "Reckon this'll take a month, if I sleep-clean and don't stop to eat anything.”

"Drama queen. I'll come and join you later if I can. You and the rats have fun up there."

"There are RATS?" Mike backs into a corner.

The sound of Alison's footsteps fade into the distance.

***

"Alison, Alison, Alison, ALISON-"

"Yes, alright, I'm here, hold your horses, power down your tanks."

"You don't power down a-"

"Do you want this or not?"

"...what was it yesterday?"

"Two minutes thirty."

"The warmer air will slow me down, now that it's later in the day. Blast. BLAST."

"Sorry, sorry, I had to get Mike going clearing out the attic."

The Captain freezes. Blood rushes into his ears. He grips his swagger stick. The tick of the grandfather clock sharpens and freezes, until it is the tick of a pocket watch.

"The attic, you say?"

The nonchalance sounds fragile even to his own ears. He looks from side to side, for enemies to his left, enemies to his right. His hands are shaking. His knees lock, he begins to pace, two steps in one direction, two steps in the other. Alison frowns.

"Yeah... he's clearing it so that-"

"Think I might as well skip the lap today, too warm, the joints will relax, let their guard down, can't have that, can't have anything letting its guard down, not for a second, never, ever get too comfortable, or else something will creep in, something dangerous, something-"

"Captain..." She extends a hand as though to rest it on his shoulder. She realises her mistake and let's it drop, but it stills him anyway. "Is that alright."

He nods fervently.

"Fine, perfectly fine, I just need to ah... Check that he's doing everything to the highest of -"

"Cap, what's in the attic?" She asks it quietly, close to tenderly. Then, a little harsher, "The last time something like this happened it was a bomb so..."

"Nothing like that Alison." She gives him a probing look and he blinks and coughs as he realises his mistake. "Nothing at all, I mean, nothing at all. I'm going to, uh-"

He bolts from the room.

Alison watches him go, opens her mouth to call him back, closes it.

***

It's faded over the years, silver turned to grey with the close proximity to cheap Christmas decorations and not-so-fine china.

The Captain makes a small noise at the back of his throat as Mike's fingers brush over it on their way to a cracked teapot. If he were a different man it'd be a scream. In his mind, it's a scream.

He takes two steps closer. His breath, useless in death but a manifestation of how his bloody emotions have remained torturously alive, is a solid bubble at the top of his chest. Mike's hands return to the box and fall upon the pocket watch. They close around it, lift it out.

The Captain's mind shouts all sorts.

_now look here michael, it's an act of impertinence of the highest order to go digging around in someone else's private possessions and if I had my way you'd be most soundly disciplined by a military court of the highest esteem for a display of such blatant -_

Somehow, this is realised as a small and misty, "Don't."

Mike pops it open. The gentle noise cuts through The Captain like the stab of a bayonet.

"Please, Michael." The utterance dampens halfway through.

Mike rubs his thumb along the inscription, removing a layer of brownish dust.

"Don't." And the word is drowning.

Suddenly, Mike freezes. He lifts his head and turns to face the room. Empty, to his eyes. The Captain watches him, like sniper to target. He's still shaking.

Mike licks his lower lip, bows his head slightly. Then, tentatively. "...is ...is this okay?"

The Captain blinks.

_no._

_no no no no no no no no._

_it's awful and terrible and lovely and painful and it's mine for the love of god put it back put it back put it back._

He says nothing.

A silent beat passes. Mike shifts from one knee to the other.

"I'll... Put this back. I think."

The Captain bites his lip. The Captain bites down on seven decades of hearing the gentle tick of what could have been in a different time, a different place, a different man. He swallows it, and chokes on it, and coughs out a saturated, "Thank you, Michael."

He staggers backwards, falls against the wall as Mike tucks the watch gently between two pieces of cloth.

"Thank you, Michael."

***

He'd known a solider once. He'd known many soldiers once. He'd known many soldiers once, twice, and a million times beside, faces reflected in a hall of mirrors of the same, bleak day over and over again. The same bland food over and over again, the same monotonous rainfall over and over and over again, the same bone-deep damp and seeping fear over and over again.

He'd known many soldiers once, but this soldier was the finest he'd ever known.

He was hardly strapping. He was hardly out of nappies if truth be told, although of course, none of them were.

(The Captain remembers the mottled red and delirious lips of a young private spitting out a joke about long trousers, flat on his back with the lower portion of his legs five hundred years away on No Man's Land. He remembers the joke and he remembers not laughing.)

The finest soldier he'd ever known was hardly strapping and hardly out of long trousers. He'd never seen a rifle before he fired his first shot and his lungs heaved and spluttered after more than a mile's marching.

But this soldier could sense the rumble of gunfire before it began. He he knew where a grenade was going to fall before it had been thrown. He knew the path of every bullet before it left the gun, he knew who he needed to tackle to the ground, lest they lose their head.

The making of a fine solider is their instincts.

The Captain watches Mike climb down the ladder, hears him pad down the hall. His knees give out and he slides to the floor, and a torrent of rain begins to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, a comment would make my heart sing!


End file.
